From The Top Of The Stairs - Poem by Zbigniew Herbert

Of course those who are standing at the top of the stairs know they know everything

with us it's different sweepers of squares hostages of a better future those at the top of the stairs appear to us rarely with a hushing finger always at the mouth

we are patient our wives darn the sunday shirts we talk of food rations soccer prices of shoes while on saturday we tilt the head backward and drink

we aren't those who clench their fists brandish chains talk and ask questions in a fever of excitement urging to rebel incessantly talking and asking questions

here is their fairy tale - we will dash at the stairs and capture them by storm the heads of those who were standing at the top will roll down the stairs and at last we will gaze at what can be seen from those heights what future what emptiness

we don't desire the view of rolling heads we know how easily heads grow back and at the top there will always remain one or three while at the bottom it is black from brooms and shovels

sometimes we dream those at the top of the stairs come down that is to us and as we are chewing bread over the newspaper they say

- now let's talk man to man what the posters shout out isn't true we carry the truth in tightly locked lips it is cruel and much too heavy so we bear the burden by ourselves we aren't happy we would gladly stay here

these are dreams of course they can come true or not come true so we will continue to cultivate our square of dirt square of stone

with a light head a cigarette behind the ear and not a drop of hope in the heart